Moriarty
by ArmaniRue
Summary: Four years after the fall, everything is relatively normal for John and Sherlock. He's back to solving cases with Watson right by his side. And he's going to need him, for when a perfectly normal seeming woman shows up asking for help to find her brother, Sherlock is going to need a lot of help for the story she has to tell and the gift she brings . . . Eventual SHERLOCK X OC.
1. Chapter 1

**Four Years after the Fall . . .**

Sherlock had long ago mastered the art of looking interested in what someone was saying, filing away the information, but not actually heeding what they had to say. It was very useful for listening to uninteresting things, such as cases or clients, and he could solve most of them without even having to completely pay attention to the client's sob story. Like now, for example.

"And I'm so worried he could be dead, and I don't –"

"Most likely."

The client, (Woman, mid-twenties, tall, copper hair, single, or hiding ring, looking after toddler, possibly older, girl considering bracelet, nice complexion, mascara only, cares about what people think though, possibly drunkard, mint green eyes, sparkling) looked at him stunned. "What? Are you –"

"Sure? You have been describing - in poor detail, I might add - the exact characteristics of the serial killer, Oliver Moran, who is known for his violent and bloody murders, and the boy of your description - tall, pale skinned, brown hair - was his latest victim. I know because I autopsied him. So, yes, I'm sure. His name was Walter, yes?"

"Holmes!" whispered-yelled Watson, who was sitting next to him.

"What?" Sherlock looked to Watson quizzically as the client, a 28 year old woman sitting right across from them on the couch, started scrounging in her purse, probably for tissues from the wetness on her cheeks.

"I merely did what she asked; I don't see the problem -"

"Holmes, she didn't ask – "

"She asked for me to figure out where her son was, I have figured it out, so why –"

"It was her brother! And you could have been more subtle!"

"Being subtle isn't going to help her. I was merely doing her a –"

"If you say favor, I am literally going to slap you."

"Oh, come now Watson, quite being so –"

"And don't you say dramatic! I am not –"

"I'd appreciate it if you both would **shut. Up.**"

Sherlock felt something cold and hard against his neck. He flashed his eyes to the client, and was extremely surprised when the once thought of demure woman sitting across from him, turned out to be the one holding the gun (Revolver, heirloom judging from wear and the gilt details, custom made, or repurposed, eight sockets instead of 6, one bullet) to his neck. Now, instead of the mother that came to 221B seeking aid for her brother, out jumped an annoyed – and likely psychotic – apparent killer, as she held the gun like a trained militant. John noticed the gun, and the person holding it, and made ready to leap for it, but he caught Sherlock's eye at the last moment, and stilled. The client – possibly assassin – noticed the almost attack and backed away from them both, keeping the gun trained on Sherlock.

"Now, Mr. Watson, I wouldn't do that if I were you. I promise, I won't hurt your precious _flatmate_ as I still have need of him."

Watson merely glared at the simpering tone and snarky grin she gave him, but a spark of recognition in Sherlock's mind made him turn his head. He studied her again, giving nothing away. (Woman, mid-twenties, tall, copper hair, single, or hiding ring, looking after toddler, possibly older, girl considering bracelet, nice complexion, mascara only, cares about what people think though, possibly drunkard, nothing! The same as last time! But something must have -)

"Alrighty then, John, Sherlock, let's get down to business, and defeat those Huns, hm?"

They both glared at her. Watson more than Sherlock, Sherlock just kept studying her with his green eyes –

(That's it! Her eyes! They're different. They aren't green anymore. They're black like . . . no. No, it couldn't –

"Pph – Damn Brits. Don't even get the - *sigh*. Never mind. Anyway! Let's continue then, shall we? As you can probably guess, I'm here for a reason, _not_ to assassinate though, thankfully. For you both anyway. No, I come for something a bit, well, domestic. A gift, to be precise. A-"

"A bullet to the brain, maybe? That would fit the present –"

"WHAT did I say about talking, hm? . . . I hope you remember Sherlock. You seem to be very . . forgetful as of late."

She moved closer to Sherlock, pressing the mouth of the gun to his forehead. Watson, noticeably agitated about the whole situation, gripped the chair's forearms until his knuckles were white and leaned slightly forward. Sherlock was his usual self on the outside, calm and condescending, but on the inside he was nervous, anxious . . . terrified. Because he knew now who this person was, in front of him. The way she yelled at him, the way she looked, even the way she held herself, proud and haughty with the gun in her hand. Her eyes . . . they were truly the windows to her soul.

"*sigh* . . . I apologize for that little, um, outburst. It seems I'm quite on edge today. But I'm off topic. I have a gift for you, Sherlock. Do you mind?" She pointed to her purse on the table. He raised his eyebrows at her, but reached inside the bag anyway, pulling out a very light box in a striped navy blue design and a black bow on top. He set it down next to her purse and when she gestured for him to open it, he pulled off the top.

(. . . Nothing? Why would there be nothing - )

"Do you know why the box is empty, Sherlock? No? Come on now, you're the world's only consulting detective, aren't you? You must have figured out!"

" . . . you have the gift –"

"Yes! I do have the gift! Can you guess what the gift is now? Come on, it's quite easy!"

"It's the gun, isn't it?"

Both Sherlock and the client looked at John, Sherlock with disguised shock, and the client with humor/surprise. John blushed faintly and said again "It is, isn't it?" The client smiled at him and nodded. She picked up the box and held it in her free hand, flat against her palm. And with a flourish and a grin, she put the gun in the box, and closed the lid. The grin still on her face, she put the box down on the table next to her purse, and sat on the sofa that she had been sitting on only moments ago.

"Now, I have a little story for you, if you both will listen. It's short, I promise, and since I'm not waving that gun around anymore, I can tell it without fear of anyone getting hurt. What do you say? Care to hear my tale?"

John was seriously debating whether or not to just tackle her and call Lestrade straight away, and hopefully lock her away in some loony bin somewhere before she waved another gun around, but Sherlock was practically glaring at him to stay seated. He seemed to trust her more than John did. But then again, Sherlock was anything but trusting. Demented and suspicious, always; but trusting, never. With a nod from Sherlock, she was on her way.

"Right, well. It was 18 years ago to date that I lost my brother the first time. He was the same age as I was, as we were twins and all. I was older, but only by 3 or 4 minutes, but that's not important. I lost him, but he didn't die. No, he ran away. Where, I don't know, but he went on to become quite famous. Anyway, about 8 years after he ran away, 10 years ago from now, I lost my parents. They were killed, shot with that very revolver. 2 years after that, I lost my older sister and my niece, both shot and killed with that revolver. A month later, my brother in law died; again, from that revolver. A year later, my fiancé died, from the revolver. At this point, there are only two bullets left in the gun. The second to last one, it killed my brother. My twin brother, exactly 4 years ago, to the day. You want to guess how he dies? With a bullet to the brain. He put it there. He put all of them there."

The flat grew eerily silent. While Sherlock stared at the client, John had a look of pity on his face. He knew what it was like to lose someone, everyone really, as being in the army on the front lines always meant someone you knew wasn't going to make it. Even if he was a doctor, he couldn't always save everyone. He still thought she was crazy, but maybe she had a reason now for her madness. Though, something was slightly familiar about the whole situation, like he had met her somewhere –

"What is your name? I don't seem to remember it." This was Sherlock.

"I never said it, did I? Well, lets fix that then!" She stood and held out her hand. "Ann. Ann Moriarty."

**. . . to the day.**

**A/N :: I'm aiming for this story to be updated every Sunday, so as I have ample time to read and review it. I would love reviews, so please give me one, even if it's something mean. It still means people are reading it. Also, if you have any ideas for a main conflict, please review with your idea, and if enough people ask for it, I might put it in. Thank you! **

**P.S. REVIEW! . . . (please?)**


	2. Chapter 2

**10:00 a.m.**

_Ann Moriarty sat in a chair,_

_ Ann Moriarty had a great scare,_

_ Ann Moriarty fell from her chair,_

_ Ann Moriarty landed in jail._

"No no, too fast, that's no good. I need to slow it down. Maybe if I..." Ann muttered as she wiped out what she had written on the legal pad in front of her.

Ann Louise Moriarty sat in an interrogation cell of a Scotland Yard precinct office, a ten minute ride from 221B. A plain wooden desk bolted to the concrete and a matching chair sat in the middle of the floor, a hooded lamp hanging above it. On three sides were slate grey walls, but on the side Ann was facing was a locked prison door and a one way mirror, hiding the Detective Inspector Lestrade, Sherlock, Watson, and two frazzled interrogators.

"Lestrade, this woman is not normal," yelled the first interrogator", you saw it yourself. She needs to be locked up, imprisoned somewhere, as far away from civilization as we can get her! She's–"

"Lestrade, your interrogators are useless. She was obviously acting out to scare them."

"Oh!? And who are you to-"

"Sherlock Holmes, pleasure to meet you. Now, please leave. Your idiocy might be contagious."

A laugh came through the open mic to the cell.

"You tell them Sherry! Hah!"

Sherlock turned his back to the fuming interrogator and looked through the window at Ann, who had dropped the legal pad and pen and was smiling at the mirror (to her).

"You can hear us?"

Ann laughed at his question, and nodded.

"Yep! Your interrogator let me tag him! It's behind the smart ass' tie! I didn't tag the quiet one, so don't worry about her." She yelled through the glass.

The interrogator in question blushed and checked. A small, see through Band-Aid was stuck quite firmly to the underneath, on his white shirt. He reached to remove it, but froze as Ann spoke through the mic again.

"Don't try and get it off, cause you can't! It's on an internal clock, set for 10 minutes. Touch the center before that, and it releases a sleeper gas! You all will be out in 4 seconds! So, I wouldn't recommend it, if I were you!"

"Wait, how did you get it on them? You didn't even touch them!" This was Watson.

She grinned and shrugged her shoulders. Watson rolled his eyes, but looked to Sherlock, who was staring through the glass at Ann. A few seconds of intense staring and he shook his head.

"You're lying."

Her smile grew larger. "How could you tell?"

Sherlock smirked back. "You smile when you lie."

The interrogator looked like he was debating being happy or not. Sherlock looked to him, losing his smirk, and going back into detective mode. "You can leave. I imagine Lestrade has no need of you now that I am here." Lestrade looked back as those words from the mirror, nodding to the interrogator and his assistant, and the man left soon after that.

"So, she can hear every word we're saying?"

"Yep! No secrets can be kept from me!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at that and said, "You can only hear us because you switched on the two way as you walked in." Her face fell. "Aw, dang. I thought I could keep it up for a while. Oh well. You're going to turn it off?"

"Not necessarily. You also broke it."

She laughed uproariously and pumped her fist in triumph. "Oh, Ann, you are _killing it_ today!"

Holmes looked to Lestrade. "She's not dangerous. Let her out."

"What?! But Holmes-"

"Hush, John. She's not dangerous."

"Hey! I can be dangerous if I want to be!"

"No doubt. But not to us."

Lestrade sighed. "You're not giving me a choice are you?"

Sherlock shook his head and Lestrade sighed again. He walked to the prison door, reaching for the keys at his belt, muttering, "Don't know why I put her in there in the first place, to be honest."

"Oh, you're going to let me out now! Good! This chair was making my butt numb anyway." Ann stood and walked to the door.

By now, Lestrade was looking quite agitated. He kept going through the keys at his belt, checking each one. John noticed and asked, "What's wrong Lestrade?"

"I can't find my damn master key!"

"Well, maybe you just-"

He was cut off as the door Lestrade was trying to unlock, opened, Ann walking through with the aforementioned key in her hand. She laughed at their looks of shock, handing the key to Lestrade.

"How did you-"

"Pickpocket the key while you weren't looking? Quite easily I imagine, since it was unsecured and hanging freely at your waist. Not hard for someone trained in pickpocketing like she is."

She laughed at Holmes' quick (and accurate) deduction, saying, "You read me so well, Sherry! I'm impressed!"

He stood a little straighter. "Sherry? I'm not an alcoholic beverage."

"That's just my nickname for you. Don't take offense, _Sherry_."

He frowned at her teasing tone. Lestrade and Watson watched the two's short banter with humor, though Lestrade still seemed to be fuming about the key. "But, we were talking about leaving this cell, right?" Ann asked. Sherlock nodded and she grinned. "Well, lets get going! I need to be home by 6 anyway." She went to the door and walked out, leaving an agitated Lestrade, a curious Holmes, and an amused Watson to follow.

**2:00 p.m.**

"Ugh...I really hate you right now, Lestrade. Why do I have to do all this damn paperwork? Isn't my card and birthday enough?"

"Your 'card' is fake, so technically, you're an immigrant here. An _illegal _immigrant, by the way."

"So?"

"Illegal means – no, you know what, quit egging me on! You're almost done anyway. I just need a proof of residency, like a receipt of rent or something like that, and you're done."

"Oh! I actually have that! Here, hold a second." She rummaged around in her expensive blue purse till she pulled out a sheet of legal paper, a down payment form for a flat.

"Alright, let me just–" He stopped and stared at the typed words on the paper. Ann merely nodded sagely at his shock, grinning a mile wide.

"You've got be joking. You're living there?!"

"Yep! I was going to move there sooner, but after all the – well, you know."

"I know, say no more. But...still. *Sigh* I don't know how they're going to react to this. Could be good, could be bad."

"Oh, they'll get over it. Besides, the landlady quite likes me."

"I'm sure she does...Well, that's all Ms. Greenday. I apologize for detaining you earlier."

"It's alright. I don't mind. Thank you for helping me apply for a work visa. How long will it last?"

"Two years. Plenty of time for you to apply for dual citizenship, or whatever you're planning on doing."

"Thanks. I appreciate it, really."

"No problem. Have a nice day."

"Thanks."

Ann walked out, a slight grin on her face.

**A/N Hello again! Thank you for reading Chpt. 2 of Moriarty, I hope you enjoyed it. I updated early for you all, so please leave a review and let me know i still have people interested! I'm going to go ahead and apologize for the clicheness that is the majority of this story, but i hope you will at least stick around to see it's end (No idea when that's going to be.) That brings me to another point, however. I have no idea where this story is going past the next chapter, so please, REVIEW! I want to hear what you all want out of this, but I need some villians! I could make my own, but i'd much rather hear from all you wonderful people! **

**REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW! **

**. . . . please?**


	3. Chapter 3

**Moriarty **

Ann walked down the street to a small colorful building with a sign reading "The Puppy Playground Daycare and Nursery." From the alleyway next to the school, she could hear children playing and yelling from the backyard. She smiled and walked the alley till she stood next to a chest-high concrete fence and a security door set into the wall. She knocked, and a shout came over the wall.

"Hello!? Who is it!?"

"It's me, Molly! I'm picking up Nicky!"

"Oh! Alright Ann! I'll buzz you through."

A loud buzz rang out, and the security door popped open. Ann pushed through to the busy courtyard beyond. Children ran around the courtyard and numerous aides ensured that no fights broke out and that everyone was safe. Molly Hooper stood by the door and grinned as Ann walked through. They hugged and Molly said "I missed you at the front today! Where were you?"

"I had to take a day off for business reasons. It's why I'm here so early. Where is Nicky, by chance?"

"She heard us yelling, so she ran to go get her stuff. She made a –"

"AUNTIE ANN!"

A small, blonde blur shot through the playground, nearly knocking over an aide and tackled Ann. But Ann was ready, her arms wide, and she caught Nicky with the grace that only years of practice could bring.

"NICKY!"

They both laughed and hugged each other, Ann spinning Nicky around for a moment before setting her down on the grass. Nicky jumped around animatedly, saying, "You're here early, Auntie! Can we go home now? I drew you a picture, wanna see?" Ann just laughed and pushed Nicky towards the door. She waved goodbye to Molly and shut the door behind her.

Nicky was just seven years old, with long blonde hair and a pink butterfly shaped backpack. She wore a white and blue spotted tank and dark blue jean capris. On her feet she wore yellow converse decorated in curly q's and flowers. Her actual name is Nicole Louise Parish, but Ann, her aunt, called her Nicky.

They walked down the alley and turned left, back the way Ann had come, towards a small moving van waiting on the curb. Ann walked to window and said, "You know where to go?" The man inside nodded, saying, "221B, right?"

"Yep, that's right. Just ask for a Mrs. Hudson. There are two other people living there, a Sherlock Holmes and a John Watson. If Mrs. Hudson isn't there, then just tell one of them that you're moving in stuff for the new tenant. It's in the basement, they'll show you."

"Alright then. Need a ride?"

"No thanks, we'll walk."

"Alright."

Ann nodded goodbye and the truck drove off. Nicky looked up at Ann. "We're moving?"

"Yep. Don't worry; it's not too far away...Wanna race?"

Nicky nodded eagerly. "Alright. Get set!"

Nicky and Ann both dropped down to a runner's position.

"Ready...GO!"

They shot off, barreling towards their new home.

John walked down the street towards 221B, groceries in hand. He and Sherlock had left the precinct not long after Lestrade had released Ann, Sherlock muttering about research. When they had gotten back, Sherlock had commandeered Watson's laptop and, as far he knew, hadn't moved. It seemed Sherlock was more curious about Ann than Watson initially thought.

Of course, Watson was intensely curious as to how, and why, Jim Moriarty killed off his **whole family**, but left his twin sister and niece alive. Though that may not have been the case. Moriarty had multiple plans in the works, and his dying left many loose ends, some of which came to fruition by themselves.

Though Watson doubted that Ann had anything to do with those plans. Watson had asked Sherlock if that was possible, for Sherlock was the one who had mentioned the possibility, but apparently, everytime Jim killed off a family member (John had shivered at the thought.), the CIA would hide the rest somewhere else.

Which only worked for so long, if Ann's tale was true. John actually felt sorry for her, to be honest. He didn't really appreciate her waving the gun around and then leaving it there (Though she didn't really have time as she went out, being in handcuffs and all), but he did feel sorry.

He turned the corner onto Baker Street, but slowed as he got nearer to 221B. A moving truck had parked outside and Mrs. Hudson was talking to a mover with a large box labeled 'kitchen' on the side in black sharpie. Watson walked up to Mrs. Hudson who gestured inside for the mover, a man with blonde hair and a plethora of tattoos.

"That'll go downstairs, to the left."

The mover nodded and went in. Watson side hugged Mrs. Hudson as a way of greeting. "What's all this about then Mrs. Hudson?" She smiled up at him, saying "Remember that tenant that was supposed to move in a year or so ago?" He nodded. "Well, it seems she's finally moving in."

"Wonder what took her so long."

"Don't know. But it may have had to do with Sherlock."

"Wouldn't surprise me."

The mover came back, saying, "That's the last of it. Have a nice day, ma'am."

She nodded to him and the mover closed the trunk and drove off. Mrs. Hudson walked inside, calling behind her, "Sherlock hasn't made a sound since he went up. I would have checked up on him, but he's locked the door, just so you know."

He frowned but nodded. "I'll go up in a second, let me drop off these groceries."

Mrs. Hudson nodded in that matronly way of hers and Watson walked off. She closed the door to her flat and stood outside. The tenant had said to expect her anytime in the last month, and since the moving van had already arrived, she would be surprised if she didn't show up today.

Mrs. Hudson was not to be disappointed, however. Ann walked hand in hand with Nicky down the street towards 221B, both of them red faced and sweating. They stopped next to Mrs. Hudson, Ann shaking her hand jovially.

"Hi Mrs. Hudson! Pleasure to see you again!"

"Hullo dear. Did you have a nice trip here? I hope those customs blokes –"

She was cut off as Sherlock breezed through the door, his coat and scarf in their usual places. Watson followed, but neither stopped or noticed Ann as they walked to the curb to wait for a passing cab. Mrs. Hudson glared, but didn't say anything as she motioned indoors.

"Well! . . If you want to put away your things, darlin', they're downstairs. The mover just left."

"Thank you, I appreciate this."

"Your quite welcome, darlin'."

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks as he heard Ann speaking to Mrs. Hudson. He turned on a dime, walking quickly back the way he had come, Watson close behind, till he stopped right in front of Ann. "What are you doing here?" he asked, suspicion running rampant across his face. She smiled at his obvious confusion and pointed inside, but before she could say anything, Mrs. Hudson cut in.

"She lives here now Sherlock, and you better treat her nicely! I won't have you chasing her away like you did the last tenant, coming in all covered in blood –"

"Blood?"

"Blood?! Cool! Are you like Doctor Lecter?"

Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson both stared at the young girl, but Ann just sighed, clarifying," She reads a lot, and I got her a graphic novel of Hannibal Lecter and that's all she reads. She probably assumes –"

"So you have dead people in your fridge?! Let me see!"

Nicky ran upstairs, leaving Ann, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock and Watson to stare after her. Ann turned to Sherlock. "Good thing you aren't Hannibal Lecter, cause she'd never leave you alone. Hannibal is her favorite character, HaniCani she calls him. It would be cute if it wasn't so . . . morbid."

"Hani . . . what?" asked Watson.

"HaniCani, short for Hannibal the Cannibal. You know, eat the rude and all! He only kills people who are rude to him or other people and then makes gourmet dishes out of them. It's quite –"

"THERE'S A HEAD IN HIS FRIDGE! I WAS RIGHT! IT'S HIM!"

. . .

"Holmes . . ."

" . . . it was for an experiment . . ."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N Apologies for the lateness! School's been a pain, and I'm losing my drive to write this! I need reviews!**

**Enjoy it, however, and Chpt. 5 will be coming out in a few weeks! Hopefully. **

**REVIEW, REVIEW, REVIEW! . . . . . Please?**

**Also, . . . . . CLIFFHANGER WARNING!**

**Moriarty**

**1 week later**

The smell of baking hovered in the air of the 221B basement. Ann stood in the small kitchen with a wrinkled white apron tied around her front and mismatching oven mitts on her hands. A tin of carefully baked angel cake muffins cooled in front of Ann, and with deliberation she took off her gloves and smiled, proud of her craftsmanship. She turned to walk into the living room, untying the apron and folding it away in a drawer.

Nicky reclined on the small white loveseat that took up the one wall of the small living room. In her lap was a drawing pad, a variety of crayons and pencils scattered next to her. She tapped a red crayon against her lip thoughtfully before she scrawled across the paper's surface.

The room around her was both violently colorful and modern, an abstract mural of various colors covering the wall behind the loveseat. A thin white rug brightened the dull dark wood floor and a mahogany coffee table of a richer shade rested atop it. An expensive flat screen took up most of the stark white wall facing the loveseat, hanging securely and playing exciting hard rock music at low volume.

Ann walked through the empty doorway to the right side of the loveseat, spotting Nicky as she came through.

"Nicky, I'll be right back. I'm going upstairs for a -."

Nicky bolted to the door, but Ann caught her shirt as she ran past, yanking her back onto the loveseat.

"NICKY! NO!"

The seven year old pouted, but Ann could only give her a look of pity.

"Sorry Nicky, but you know what Sherry said. I can't let you go up with me after what you did."

"But I didn't do anything!"

". . . Stealing his violin isn't anything?"

". . . He wouldn't teach me how to cook people."

"And he definitely won't now. So, stay here and color and I'll be right back."

Ann simply grinned at Nicky's morose face and patted her head before heading out the door, discreetly locking it on the way.

Sherlock sat perched on his chair in front of the television, violin in hand, tweaking and twanging the strings. He hit an off note, making Watson cringe as he sat on the couch with a cup of tea in his hand. Watson gave him a glare that, if Sherlock had noticed, would have made him quail, but Sherlock fixed it without catching Watson's eye. Unfolding until his arms and legs were extended out akimbo, Sherlock's posture practically screamed -

"BORED."

"You're not bored, you have too much to do to be bored."

"But I _am,_ John."

"No, you're _not_. So quit whining like a child. You're thirty-four, not three."

"*Sigh* . . . ."

Watson grinned slightly at the resigned look on Sherlocks' face, but hid it behind his cup of tea. A knock at the door and Watson looked to Sherlock decisively, whose head had fallen back till his curls hung down the upholstery. His green eyes were glaring petulantly at Watson, like a small child would when they didn't want to do what their parents said. Watson, undeterred by his childish attitude, gazed at Sherlock with calm resolve before Sherlock sighed (again, like a child) and rose to answer it. Another knock, this time accompanied by a voice.

"Sherry, you home? I made some cupcakes and was wondering if you wanted some. "

The door creaked open slightly, Sherlock peeking around the corner.

"Is that horrid creature with you?"

"Really Sherry? She's not that bad, and she's seven. Give her a break!"

He quirked an eyebrow at her. "It doesn't take a lot to annoy me, and stealing my violin is almost guaranteed to make me want to kill a small child, whether she takes after you or not."

She smirked at that, knowing he was kidding and Sherlock let her in (if reluctantly, and with some glares from Watson) closing the door tightly and dead bolting it after her. Ann grinned at the obvious paranoia, slumping into the chair Sherlock had only moments ago occupied. He glared at her, silently demanding her to move, but she made herself comfortable and fixed her eyes upon Watson, who was enjoying the show immensely.

"Thank you for the generous offer of tea, Sherry, but I'll have to decline. Some coffee would be nice, though, if you can make me a cup."

The look he gave her would have murdered numerous puppies in very painful and cruel ways, but she paid his childishness no heed. After a moment, though, he sighed and shuffled into the kitchen, but not to make her a cup of coffee. Watson was right when he said he had numerous things to do, an ongoing experiment being one of them. And burning plastic was not a good smell to associate with this particular experiment. Very not good.

". . . He's not getting me coffee is he?" Ann said after a minute of silence and no apparent sounds from the kitchen suggesting he had done as she had asked.

"No, probably not. You wouldn't want his coffee anyway; he makes coffee like he makes tea. Poorly and with too much sugar."

She laughed and shook her head. "He's really that bad?"

Watson nodded gravely, making Ann giggle and grin.

"Hey! How has your week been? Easy moving in all that stuff?"

"Quite, actually. We just had to unpack everything from the boxes, and Nicky and I are both used to it. Not hard at all."

He nodded, and they both relapsed into comfortable silence, only faint clattering from the kitchen as Sherlock bustled around cleaning and keeping himself busy (not making Ann a cup of coffee, though). The sound of the front door opening and closing, however, stirred Ann to action.

"Mrs. Hudson's here. You want a cupcake? Red velvet and I'm going to put some buttercream icing on them in a minute."

"I would love one, but afraid I just had lunch. Save one for me though?"

"Of course! Anytime you want it. I try not to throw them away if I can."

"Save one for Sherlock, too. He won't admit it, but he loves your cupcakes. . . . don't tell him I said that."

She laughed, but nodded, heading down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat. The door was open, so Ann knocked on the doorway and peeked her head around. Mrs. Hudson stood with her back to Ann, grocery bags on the table in front of her.

"Mrs. Hudson! I made some cupcakes if you want - OW!"

Ann's hand flew to her neck, where a thin dart had embedded itself, a small plastic covering the only thing preventing it from disappearing into her neck. She pulled it out and tossed it away, but even now she felt her skin deadening at a frightening pace. She looked to Mrs. Hudson, who was staring in horror at Ann.

"Don't let tem tac ne . . ."

Ann keeled over, head banging on the corner of the table, before the blackness took her.

A cold, dark room.

_ Maybe not dark. Wouldn't surprise me if I'm blindfolded. They seem like those kind of people. Speaking of people, where are they? If they are here, they must be new. No professional ever administers sleeper drugs without –_

A door opening then closing and footsteps around her. Someone stuck their fingers in the band on her eyes, making her twitch slightly, but enough.

_"_She's up."

_Ah. Professionals then. Good. This'll be fun._

_ "_Please_ . . . _whatever you want_ . . ." _she groaned in the most pitiful tone Ann could muster.

_"_Shut it."

"I . . I don't know what you want, but-"

A slap, hard across the face. Whoever's hand it was, a nice sharp ring accompanied it, along with a light, but heavily bleeding scratch on her forehead for her to fix later . . . if there was a later.

_There's always a later. Always. Hopefully . . . maybe._

_ Right. Take stock of situation. Like Jim showed you. Two different footsteps, heavy, men. They aren't talking . . . that could be –_

"When is he supposed to get here?"

"I don't know. Later."

"Yeah, but when?"

"I don't know! Shut it!"

. . . _Okay. Maybe not professionals. One to my right and front, though. Thank you righty! Now about this blind . . ._

"He's here. Get ready."

The door swung open again.

_Lighter footsteps than the first two_,_ expensive shoes. Boss maybe? Whe-_

The blind was yanked away, harshly. Bright, fluorescent lights blinded her momentarily.

"Is she the only one you could get? No one saw you?"

"We had to take her off her front porch. An old lady was there, but she was too scared to scream. No one else in the house heard," Fronter (a tan, Indonesian looking man with large arms) said.

"That woman sounded the alarm seconds after you left. He'll be here soon. Too soon, but everything's in place. They are ready."

"Who? Who's coming?" This was Ann, still blinking away spots.

A flash of white. "Who do you think?"

"Mm . . . Paris Hilton. "

"Ha! No, though I admire your humor, sister."

"Sister! Who are you calling -!"

"Well, who else would call you sister, other than me?"

She grinned at the smiling man in front of her.

"Brother. . . . it's been too long."


End file.
